


rose-thorns

by Vintage (KyberHearts)



Series: set adrift [3]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Drinking, Established Relationship, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Mention of Death, Mild Sexual Content, Other, angst? angst, gender neutral reader, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-10-25 23:24:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17734649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyberHearts/pseuds/Vintage
Summary: A visit to the Drifter's old bar sharply descends into violence;or,Revelations on how much he really cares for you.Lascia la spina, cogli la rosa;tu vai cercando il tuo dolor.---Leave the thorn, take the rose;you go searching for your pain.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "Could you write a fic where the drifter almost loses the guardian and he realizes that he dosent only LUST for them, but that he needs and loved them."
> 
> Thanks to Xxgjotd for the wonderful idea :^)
> 
> [Some references made to the Breakneck lore.](https://www.ishtar-collective.net/entries/breakneck?highlight=The+Drifter)

Light trickles through your body with a warm, calming sensation as the Ghost gently nudges you awake. It curiously glances around a bedroom which is not your own, then to your ill-fitting clothes which smell like someone else, like metal polish. The ivory shell rests on your outstretched palm. Your other hand closes around empty, crumpled sheets.

“He woke up an hour ago,” the Ghost whispers. “This is the third time tonight, you know?”

The floor-to-ceiling windows reveal an Earth shrouded in nighttime, and its shadows lurk aboard _The Derelict_. You swing your legs over the side of the bed and rub static from your eyes. Being on the ship feels liminal, regardless of its mass draped among the constellations, because it leaves echoes of the man known as the Drifter. Perhaps it’s intentional: _The Derelict_ hoards his footsteps and vexed rants, and it is lonely on a vessel named ‘outcast’.

Hugging the borrowed _gi_ around your frame, you walk towards an adjacent kitchen so briefly glimpsed when the Drifter threw you on the counter and kissed you with whiskey-stained lips. You knock lightly on the door jamb. “Hey.”

The Drifter looks up from a tablet scrawled with alien language (Hive glyphs, if you had to wager a guess). His short hair sticks up in the back and there are deep, violet shadows lurking under those strange eyes. A bottle of amber-gray alcohol keeps him company. “Hey.”

“What are you drinking?”

“Come here.”

He seats you on his lap. His mouth, hot and wet in the midnight aftermath, presses against yours as he fills up the shot glass, and he hands it to you. “I call it ‘Whirlwind’. It’s got some vodka, some eth-- well, just try it,” he says, “It’s sweeter than you’d expect. Promise.” It also scorches your throat like a motherfucker. A pleasantly menthol-like sensation rests heavy on the mind until it dissipates, minutes later.

The Drifter finishes the rest of the bottle and then studies it with obvious disappointment.

“How do you, uh, feel about a nightcap?” he asks, looking back to you with a slight, crooked grin. “A really, really late nightcap. On a totally unrelated note, did you know I used to own a bar?”

 _The Derelict_ switches hemispheres in less than an hour. The Drifter, in the meantime, pins you on the navigation console and slides a hand down your front. He rocks against your ass, groaning loudly as he seeks friction, chasing the sort of bliss which melts mind and inhibitions. You scrabble helplessly against metal and flesh and you _beg_ for him, and he curses violently when he makes a mess in his briefs. Though he gives as much as he takes (which is more than fair in his opinion), it’s probably the furthest thing from Light-bonding or making love or whatever sappy shit they call it these days. He loves the texture of your skin, how you practically mold like clay in his hands; it makes him feel more than just a whisper in the City.

The two of you change and dress with trembling fingers. The Drifter sits on the edge of the unmade bed, willing away a sleepy ache in his muscles, and watches as you tidy the class insignia on your outfit. “Listen,” he warns, “I know you’re pals with the Vanguard, but keep it on the down low when we arrive. If you really want to go after a bounty, we can do that when we’re not drinkin’. So, you’re here as an unofficial Guardian, yeah?”

“Weapons allowed?” you ask, sidearm hovering at your side.

The Drifter walks over, and covers your hand with his-- and then slots it into the holster. “Weapons recommended,” he says.

He keeps _The Derelict_ in orbit and the two of you transmat into an ages-old region of what was known as Old Chicago. Only few skyscrapers remain as a testament to respect for the Golden Age, and the general unease of an abandoned city. A dreary fog clings to your clothes while the Drifter navigates the slurry of swamp and concrete. Minutes after arriving, you hesitate against a backdrop of twisted, tangled trees, overwhelmed by the anxiety prickling at your fingertips. He glances back.

“The Light is so faint here,” you tell him, struggling to condense the threadbare sensation clinging to your energy.

“You’ll get used to it,” the Drifter says dismissively and then takes your hand. “Plenty survived here during the Dark Ages. Iron Lords and Wolves were rampant. Ghosts without Guardians, too. Figured that this place used to be so populated, there had to be one or two ‘Chosen Ones’ amid the ruins.”

He rambles about stumbling across legends like Felwinter and Efrideet, and even hints at fighting with the Vanguard ( _before, y’know, they started following the rules,_ he remarks). He passes a dead tree, still upright, and taps the scarred, white flesh as he pushes through the marsh. You let your gaze linger on another echo of _him_ , so far away from anything familiar.

Honestly, the Drifter didn’t expect a pubhouse from the Dark Ages to survive through the eras, but each turn of the century surprises him. It’s still there, hidden amidst the transit system and painted bronze to blend seamlessly with the environment. A couple of rusted Pikes rests askew near the half-boarded up doorway. He gestures for you to go first; like any Guardian, you enter without hesitation.

The bar is nothing beyond the ordinary: It has chairs, tables, and an owner-bartender between unruly alcoholics and a liquor cabinet. The Drifter enters and scans the current crowd. Three of Spider’s Eliksni far from home, their porcupine quills brushing against the ceilings, share a bottle of Whirlwind; some nomads, likely Lightbearers without allegiances, exit immediately after your arrival; and the Exo bartender who greets him with a roll of his honeyed-yellow eyes.

“Less busy than I remembered,” the Drifter announces, slinging an arm around you as he propels you towards the bar. “How you doin’, Scarab?”

The Exo exasperatedly slams two empty glasses on the countertop. He squints at your Guardian insignia and detail, then swats at the Drifter when he leaves over the counter. Despite the erosion around his sullen facial features, his voice seems so much younger and lively. “What’s the point of losin’ your bar if you keep returnin’, huh?” Scarab complains. “You have to pay for drinks now, dumbass.”

The Drifter chuckles. “I hear ya. A few centuries does nothin’ to my memory.”

“You stayin’ long? Close up for me. Open tab. Just like before.”

“Done.”

The Drifter eagerly blinks through the counter-- and you stare, because you didn’t think he could _do_ that-- and they shake heartily. You noticed the number ‘19’ printed on the back of Scarab’s hand. “Keys are in the back,” says the Exo. “Keep an eye out. If Cenric catches wind that you’re here, it ain’t gonna be good for you or the Guardian here."

“Mmm. Appreciate it.”

Scarab-19 ducks out of the bar on the heels of Spider’s Eliksni and then to your continued astonishment, he summons a Ghost with the same hues as the bar. He shimmers out of view.

“Who’s Cenric?” you ask, switching your attention back to the man behind the bar.

“None of your business, punk,” the Drifter shoots back, and pours you a shot of Whirlwind. There are three liquor bottles full of the strange cocktail, and they burn just as nice as Drifter’s homemade version. Now that the bar is devoid of patrons, he rifles through the good, aged stuff and plies you with drink after drink. Alcohol doesn’t take effect in Guardians unless they actively cap their resilience and give the Ghost a strict ‘Do-Not-Resuscitate’.

“What do you call this one?” you ask, eyeing a thin, pink liquid which shifts into a light-to-dark gradient with the lighter colors clustered at the bottom.

“Uh, it’s--” He furrows his brow. “Don’t remember.”

“Liar.”

“Whatever.” He wipes his mouth. “Actually, y’know, it’s called-- I, uh, called it Dredgen’s Rose. Yeah. There’s a bit of Queensfoil Tincture. Bit of high-grade, then syrup for the taste.”

The Drifter takes a sip, then leans forward and kisses you. He doesn’t force the drink in your mouth, not until you gingerly delve deeper, tasting the Rose’s sweet, floral aroma on his patient tongue. It seems too gentle for a drink named after a villain; perhaps that’s where the allure lies. He cups your jawline and sighs into your mouth, then pulls away. His thumb skates across your lower lip.

“I made most of the drinks here. Scarab used to watch the bar when I was out and about,” the Drifter says, leaning forward on his elbows, “and then I bet the place in a game of cards. He was ecstatic.”

“Do you miss being here?”

“Sometimes. I gave it a good ten, fifteen years. Then I had to move onto other things, bigger things. That’s how it works.”

“So says the man who calls himself, ‘Drifter’.”

“Aw, Guardian, I could call myself anythin’. It’s just a name. What’s it matter in the end?”

“It sounds like you’re just going to drift through the systems for the rest of time.”

“And?” he asks, still smiling.

You shrug. “Doesn’t it get lonely?”

The Drifter runs a hand over his short, cropped hair. “Once you wander long enough, you start to figure out that people either befriend you to gain somethin’, or they’ll kill you for it.” His bright eyes flick over your shoulder; you turn to see a broad, thick shadow through the boarded up doorway. “And sometimes, the ones you kill just don’t stay dead,” he finishes.

The Drifter knows he should shoot Cenric the moment he stepped across the threshold, but his ego stays his hand. He expects a bit of banter. Vows of vengeance and the like. It’s been some time since he last saw a Shadow of Yor, especially someone so far culled by the Darkness. One look betrays his secret: The Light abandoned Cenric a long, long time ago. The whites of his eyes are muddied; the shifting nebulas under his Awoken skin seem to dull and cease at random intervals. He descended into the darkness, and it never relinquished its power over him.

“Cenric,” the Drifter says cheerfully. “Didn’t I kill you?”

The corrupted Shadow snarls, and then raises his arm, his hand-- “You missed my Ghost last time.”

The first shot nicks the Drifter’s left shoulder. The second embeds deep in his collarbone and the _pain_ , the poison which paralyzes his muscles is all too familiar. Fear as cold as ice splinters through his veins. He looks up with wide eyes to that sinister-looking hand canon, and he ducks the third shot as it goes wide and destroys the overhead ceiling lamp.

 _Bad aim,_ he thinks.

Then he sees blood trickling from the Shadow’s arm and you might have saved him a fresh scar, but then you tackle the much, much larger man. His weapon discharges again; you knock the gun away and don’t see where it lands. You grapple him fiercely, pushing through an overwhelming nausea crippling your lower abdomen ( _Guardian,_ the Shadow spits, and you answer, _Damn right_ ), and then he seizes what looks like a huge _thorn_ embedded in your chest armor, and he _twists_ , and you _scream_.

_His Ghost lies limp next to the three corpses on the floor of a vessel which reeks of Taken and Darkness. Blood stains their frostbitten faces and ragged clothes; thick, acrid oil spills from the Exo’s shattered body. Heavy, obsidian-like shards jut out between their armor plates._

The Drifter blinks hard, and snaps sharply back into reality. He yanks out the bullet from his collar and lets it clatter to the ground, smoking and dissolving.

The Shadow grabs your neck and chokes the life out of you-- no, not just your breath, he realizes, as the Darkness within the Shadow of Yor greedily laps at the burning, white energy seeping from your skin. _Light._ He’s draining you of Light, he’ll kill you, _he will kill you--_

_Quiet at last. The Thorn pulses hungrily; it feeds on the flicker of relief which washes through him. He tries to ignore it. The Drifter replaces the hand canon in its holster. Then he leans against the wall and waits for them to wake up. Minutes pass. And then an hour. And then the sweet stink of death, the sort which lingers, forces him into the blistering cold as he collapses to his knees and retches._

He forces himself to move. His fingers twitch around empty space, so he grabs the first weapon he sees --

The muzzle of the tainted Thorn presses against Cenric’s temple. The Drifter doesn’t blink when he squeezes the trigger and kills him again.

_In his dreams, he kills his friends again and again. But he had warned them, after all, so could you really blame him?_

Breathing hard, he looks down and sees fear in your eyes.

And then the Drifter unloads the rest of the clip into a dead man.

He kneels, grasps the half-melted thorn in your chest, and wrenches it out. You cry out and swear at him with every name under the sun, then collapse in his arms, sobbing as emptiness replaces the pain. He digs into your clothes and holds you close to his uninjured shoulder. He can taste the Rose in the back of his throat. Twin Ghosts slip into view and they cast their Light over your battered bodies.

It feels like hours when you finally stir. “Drifter.”

“Mmm. How do you feel?”

“You knew that Cenric would show up today, didn’t you?”

He hesitates. Then-- “Yeah, I guessed. Odds were in our favor.” The Ghosts scrutinize his admission; yours, in particular, seems to glare angrily. His eyes fix on the Thorn waiting patiently in his palm, and then he throws it away as far as possible. It clatters somewhere in the shadows. He doesn’t care. “The Vanguard will have my ass if anythin’ like this happens again.”

“If you really cared about the Vanguard, we wouldn’t be here in the first place.”

“It’s different now. I don’t want you gettin’ hurt because of something I’ve done.”

“Who else is gonna watch your back?”

“Guardian--”

“I’m not scared--”

“I’m not gonna _lose_ you--” He sets his jaw and looks away, trembling as he tries to recover his calm. “You’re-- good, and you’re sweet, and you’re sometimes clueless when it comes to fighting bigger people, but I ain’t gonna lose you. You’re gonna stay out of trouble and get a better goddamn gun, and-- and--"

He takes a shuddering breath.

”If you die, you come back,” the Drifter demands. “You come back _to me_. Got it, Guardian?”

You clumsily tilt his chin down and place a soft kiss on his cheek. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”


	2. Chapter 2

He wakes up suddenly, and then glances over to--

\--empty, crumpled sheets.

The rogue Lightbearer rubs his eyes, waits for his heart to stop pounding, and then forces himself to get up. He grimaces at his reflection, aged and weary and sleepless, then checks the fresh bruises on his pale skin. The one on his shoulder is healing quickly, but he digs his fingers into his collarbone, wincing as the ache blossoms through his chest.

“Goddamn Thorn,” he mutters, to no one particular, or to his Ghost in the alcove, “Always leavin’ marks.”

* * *

While dishing out bounty rewards to a handful of chatty Guardians, the Drifter offhandedly comments, “I thought there were more in your little group. Doncha have another?”

Two Warlocks, identical from the curve of their horns to the scuff marks on their boots, look at each other and shrug. “One of our Gambit regulars hasn’t been feeling well,” says the one on the right. “They weren’t here last week, either.”

“Or to any of their Vanguard sanctioned duties,” adds the left Warlock. “Everyone needs a break sooner or later.”

* * *

It’s another terse week before you reappear in the bazaar. Your name dances on others’ lips and the Drifter ducks out of the alleyway to catch a glimpse of your profile-- by the Traveler, he’s _missed_ you-- as you chat with fellow Guardians. But even at a distance, he notices a change in your mood. Dark shadows under your eyes, half-hearted responses, and hesitant body language. Arms crossed, rocking back and forth, distracted glances.

You finally break away and head to the lower levels, gripping the railing with white knuckles. Unfocused, it takes you a moment longer to realize that there are two shadows on the wall, and then the Drifter yanks you underneath the stairs, trapping you between him and the wall. In the next moment, his smile’s slipped from his face as he feels the precious prickle of a blade under his jaw. The knife at his throat was purely instinctive and yet, you just stare at him.

Your lips part. Nothing sounds but he knows the shape of his name on your lips.

Then he raises his eyebrows. “Well?” he asks softly. “Are you gonna cut me?”

“No, I--”

The Drifter suddenly grabs your wrist and forces pressure on the blade. It scrapes against the cords in his throat with each inhale, exhale, and so on. “What if I was bad?” he demands. “Could you do it?”

“Look, if this is about Chicago--”

“Of course it’s about Chicago. It’s about the last three weeks without showing face.” The Drifter finally releases you. He watches as you slowly return the dagger to your belt, then fold your arms across your chest. Your gaze is fixed somewhere on the trodden floors. “I’m not on the only one who’s concerned. I hear your clanmates, your fireteam talk about how you’re not well. And if this really is about Chicago, let me help. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I-- I don’t know,” you admit, running a hand over your weary expression. “I keep going back to that night. I keep having these _dreams_.”

“What sort?” he asks.

“Bad ones.”

The Drifter slots his fingers with yours, lacing them intimately, and brings them to his chest. He takes a slow breath. “What else?”

There’s a deeply haunted look in your eyes. “Losing track of time. Sometimes I find myself going to the dead zone in the middle of the night. I’ll be searching the empty streets. My Ghost is on the brink of having a panic attack but half the time it doesn’t remember what happened. Neither do I.”

Your hands ball into fists-- frustrated, violent-- and then you’re leaning all of your weight on him, breathing in the smell of him, gun polish and aftershave, and the Drifter wraps his arms around you.  

“Shadows of Yor can be tough sons of bitches,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry that you’re still hurtin’, but the dreams and the pain won’t last. I promise.”

“It feels… different this time.”

“No trauma is the same, darkling. We walk away as different people all the time. Come stay with me for a few nights.”

* * *

His red-eyed Ghost rests comfortably at a distance, its glow dimmed as pre-Golden Age music fills the bedroom. It stirs the machine made of metal and glass and white-hot, splintered rainbow Light. A sensation reminiscent of the past times, of fading consciousness, of healing light, of nomads gathered round a campfire as they look towards their last hope, the Last City after Darkness. The Ghost remembers the two lives: with the Chosen One, and after they rose for the first time, the _We_ before _Us_.

The Drifter touches his forehead against yours and trails his hands from your cheeks to your jawline, then your neck and shoulders. The tender, slow caress tempts you to shut your eyes-- gods, how you’ve _missed_ him-- and lean into his every warm touch. He shrugs off his _gi_ and pushes you backwards on the gray bed. His callused hands scrape along your arms, moving and pinning them as he ducks down and kisses you full on the mouth.

One of his hands drops down to your collar. The dark-haired man unfolds you like a present, peeling away layers distractedly until you are bare against his tight-fitting lightwear. The Drifter remembers where you’d been struck by the Thorn. So he finds and kisses the dark bruise in the center of your chest, sighing into your naked skin. However three weeks passed, the aftermath embedded deep into your body and left its mark.

“Does it hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Close your eyes.”

He returns his mouth to your aching bruise. His exhale against your skin is warm, then warmer, and then you’re trying to fight against the heat of his lips. He merely tightens his singular hold on your arms above your head. You feel the Drifter drag his tongue against your skin in a languid, sensual manner and you tip your head back, panting heavily. Even his palms and fingers sear like an open flame; and somewhere in your mind, you realize, that he is _radiant_.

The Drifter siphons Light from him to yours, echoing that timeless cycle of where lovers meet and end, willful and conscious of how he kindles your flames. You’ve never seen a Guardian do anything like this before; not even a Warlock could heal without a medium like a Rift; then again, the Drifter never played by the rules. The scorching heat flickers, then steadily fades into a dull smolder.

He releases your arms and your hands scrabble at your chest with no familiar, throbbing pain which plagued you since Old Chicago. The bruise’s necrotic appearance and its lingering effects were cauterized out of your system. He hums quietly as he trails his fingers over the healed area. The Drifter flicks his eyes upward, then back down to the canvas of your body.

“Now--” His mouth moves further down, down, as he removes the rest of your clothes-- “Now, it’s just another memory.”

* * *

The Drifter wakes from his dreams, and carefully untangles himself from you. He strokes your face and lingers for a minute, and then another, before he slips into another room to preserve your peace. Throwing on a wrinkled robe, he seats himself at the kitchen table and picks up his datapad. The Ghost lazily circles the room like a satellite. He wipes sleep from his eyes and squints at messages from old contacts, some handled tediously, some received with hostility. He skips over messages from Mercury, Venus, and places beyond the system, while distractedly biting his lip.

After the Ghost’s fifth orbit, droning obnoxiously close to his head, the Drifter sighs and glares at the Ghost. “Do you have somethin’ to say?” he asks icily.

It blinks, red-eyed, and then the datapad projects an unopened message dated about two and a half weeks ago. It’d been from Scarab-19, the owner of the bar, and he’d dismissed it without a second thought. “He’s probably gripin’ about the mess we made,” he mutters but selects the note anyways.

_Drifter. You and your Guardian friend made a mess._

“See?” he told the Ghost, who continues to drift, then keeps reading.

_Cenric doesn’t look like he’s coming back. Must’ve killed his Ghost some time ago, unless it had the sense to leave first. Whichever. Buried him at the outskirts. I’ll tell you where if you ever want to gloat over him._

_I was surprised that your Guardian friend came back so soon. They apologized on your behalf. They like the drinks Joker’s Wild and Risen but I think they like your Rose best. Paid their tab, collected Cenric’s gun, asked me not to tell you that you came back. Which is probably why I’m messaging you. Good luck. - S19_

He throws down the datapad noisily and stares at the message. Reads it again and again. Picks it up. Goes over to the door, hesitates, then pushes it open.

The light from the kitchen paints the bedroom and it’s enough to illuminate you sitting at the edge of the bed. You don’t look up as he approaches. The Drifter kneels in front of you as you stare at the chitin-shelled, obsidian black hand canon in your possession. Wisps of smoke furl from its spiked muzzle.

“You’ve, uh, been havin’ fun without me, Guardian,” he says lightly. “Do you use it often?”

“No.”

“Just for lookin’? I can understand. It’s beautiful. But it ain’t good for your Light.” The Drifter sets his jaws. “It’s probably been givin’ you those nightmares.”

You finally raise your head. Some part of him feels anger and betrayal towards your interest for the Weapon of Sorrow-- unfortunately for his rage, all he sees on your face is fear. Scared, again, by the hand canon which poisoned your body and now, your mind. He welcomes Darkness for its whole and lawless state, but he won’t stand by and let it corrupt you. Not while he can prevent the fate of all Shadows of Yor.

“Listen,” he continues, “when I said you needed a better gun, I didn’t mean the Thorn. Literally any other gun would’ve worked.”

The ploy at humor works. You chuckle, and the Drifter firmly, swiftly takes the Thorn from you. You don’t fight him. Good. It means you’re not completely under its thrall. He transmats it into his vault and immediately, the tension in the room relaxes. You can’t help the look of pure relief. “I’ll help you dismantle it, okay? Let’s see if you start feelin’ better away from it.”

“Drifter, I’m sorry.”

“Mmm. I forgive you. I had my own Thorn, once upon a time.” He coaxes you back underneath the sheets and despite his wide-awake unease, he cradles you in his arms. The Drifter can feel his Light within your own body, the effects of his radiance, and it tells him that you’re more than just someone who keeps his bed warm at night. Doesn’t he know it yet? He craved your touch while you were gone; he missed your voice and your laugh; and he missed how much he loved--

He blinks.

\--loved being with you.

“Drifter,” you murmur and he answers. “The Thorn… My dreams called it ‘Rose’.”

“Not anymore, honey,” he says, “It hasn’t been Rose in a very, very long time. Sleep now.”

He shuts his eyes, too. Oh, to name what he feels for the Guardian-- the intense desire to protect you and save you from darker, hollowed fates-- he couldn’t call it love. Something like love would destroy him and his secrets. He wouldn’t risk everything for a single person. No. No, he couldn’t.

Then the Drifter feels you shift and turn towards him, your lips soft against his shoulder. You murmur sleepily, something which he strains to hear but sounds like his name. He smiles.

And for a brief moment, he allows himself to think, _Later._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is this angst? did i angst correctly?  
> \--  
> also i've never officially stated this but if you have ideas or prompts, feel free to share them :^) i'm always looking for inspiration


	3. epilogue

With the tip of your tongue caught between your teeth, you focus on the jade coin. You roll it across your fingers, just like the Drifter does, albeit slower and less smoothly. You stretch your legs against a crate of dismantled Fallen weapons much to his chagrin as he rifles through the salvage. In the lull between Gambit matches, you can find him up to his elbows in old, outdated tech and artifacts from all over the system. Organics weren’t safe from him, either, dead or alive (but that’s a horrifying memory for another time).

“Hey, Drifter,” you say as you vanish the coin into thin air. “One of my friends broke into my apartment last week.”

“Uh-huh.”

“They drank my bottle of Whirlwind. You gave it to me last Dawning.”

“Did I?”

“Well, they liked it, and wanted to know its ingredients. And,” you continue, tossing the coin at him, “I don’t’ know how to make Whirlwind.”

The Drifter catches the jade coin yet his palms are empty as he dusts them free of rust chips and metal shavings. “I think it’s best if you didn’t know.”

“Dear Traveler, it has drugs or poison, doesn’t it? Illegal substances?”

He grabs a blaster rifle as long as your leg and raps it against the ground, shaking out its insides. Bronze bullet shells scatter across the concrete floor. “What? No. Jeez, the things that run through your mind. Whirlwind’s just vodka and liquid ether. It’s a great hit among Eliksni. Goes into their system like it’s shot directly into their bloodstream.” Grinning ear-to-ear, he wags a finger in your direction. “And then when I tell the truth, y’all turn as white as a sheet. I told you.”

“ _Ether?_ ” you yelp. “Is that safe to drink?”

The Drifter sighs.

“A Lightbearer is not gonna die because of a little ether poisoning. I’d be dead eons ago.”

A flash of green arcs through the air and you grab it before it smacks you between the eyes. It feels much heavier than before and you realize that you’re holding a cartridge shell.

You stare in awe as the Drifter expertly rolls the coin across his fingers. He shrugs innocently. “Whirlwind is much tamer than its previous versions. After Scarab took over, he put a ban on, uh, unconventional garnishes.” He’s still smiling that damn smile of his: All teeth. “Hive egg yolk, Leviathan spores, the Vex milk-juice that gets everywhere when you hit that sweet spot--”

You stand up. “I’m leaving, and I’m going to throw up in the bushes next to Ikora’s studio.”

“I told you,” he says again, laughing as he grabs your hand. Although you might be a walking war machine thanks to the Light, the Drifter thinks you look cute with your face all scrunched up. He presses his lips to your knuckles and chuckles. “I don’t add that stuff anymore. Tastes change. C’mon, you _like_ my spirits, you’ve said it time and time again. Give me a minute and I’ll write down all your favorite drinks. And I’ll make them whenever you like.”

* * *

Bar List

Risen  
dash of rum, cup of black tea, crushed pepper

Joker’s Wild  
absinthe, champagne, sugar cubes

Whirlwind  
vodka, liquid ether

Dredgen’s Rose  
sake, simple syrup, rose extract

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> full disclaimer i have not tried these cocktails  
> proceed with caution


End file.
